The lady reseated herself, watching him expectantly. A stout female stood in the aperture, an oil lamp in her hand. So he sharpened a score of pencils, and after fiddling about and rewriting the last page he had written the previous night, he plunged into work. ‘Why have you come in here?’ demanded Melusine, turning on him. You don’t wear a dinner coat with a flower in your button-hole, or last night’s shirt, or very glossy boots, nor do you haunt the drawing-room in the evening, or play at being musical.
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